A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

“I’m not sure what that was,” I said.

She pointed to the old man at the back of the stage. “I watched him towards the end; he was flailing about with his hands as much as the jugglers were. You think he is a weaver?”

“Could be,” I said. “But they say true weavers never leave the Silence.”

“Who is they?” Lira asked with a smug look.

I made an inarticulate gesture, then turned back to the stage as the jugglers readied their next performance.

Fruit. It didn’t quite have the same impact as levitating wooden balls, but it grew more and more elaborate as the act continued. What started with three apples between the two became five apples, a loose bundle of bananas, and an odd-looking melon with alternating stripes of dark and light green. Balancing this lovely display a dozen or so feet above the stage earned a few “oohs and ahhs,” but they were not finished.

A clap, load as ice cracking, broke the still evening air. I stared hard, watching the man in the shadows as well as the fruit dance back and forth. The fruit seemed to slow, though not as slow as the wooden balls from earlier.

On the left, the juggler caught an apple, spun with the catch, then raised the fruit to his mouth, taking a large bite before tossing it back to his partner. He, in turn, caught another apple and did the same. Once each apple was little more than a core, they moved to the bananas, peeling them in several attempts before working up to a bite. Apple cores and empty banana peels flying about, it was time for the melon.

I wondered how they might peel this, which was many times larger than the largest apple. Torchlight reflected off exposed steel, answering my question.

As the melon made its circuit, the juggler on the right slashed it in half with a long knife, exposing the ruby-red flesh. He changed his rhythm and added the two halves and the blade into the rotation. His partner caught all three, severing the halves into quarters, and returned them, all while keeping the rest of the fruit aloft.

This repeated two more times until an additional ten and six pieces of melon and the knife flew back and forth. Then they ate. And when the final bite came, I felt a rush of wind at my back, pulling towards the stage. The jugglers turned from each other, faced the crowd, and bowed with their hands at their sides. The spent fruit continued its arc and bounced off them in utter buffoonery.

There was laughter abound until we remembered the knife. There was a collective gasp. The blade spun, halfway between the two men, traveling slowly through the air.

“The knife!” someone shouted. “Watch out!”

Then it stopped mid-flight, held by an invisible hand. I looked to the shadows, where the man in purple reached with an outstretched arm. It was difficult to see him clearly, but I could see that his arm trembled terribly. The audience sat in awe, so silent you could hear a mouse pissing.

Then it crashed, clattering off the wooden stage harmlessly. The roar of applause drowned out the second crash, one that occurred in the shadows. I stood, but as soon as I did, I saw two men holding the man in purple by his arms and easing him back onto his stool. He swatted at their fussing like bees.

I retook my seat. Lira grabbed my arm and whispered into my ear, “Now that was magic.”

I nodded, having no other way to explain what I just witnessed.

“You hired a magician?” Ama asked, turning to Monroe.

Monroe turned his attention away from his companions. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say then?” Ama pressed.

“I hired the circus; the magician came with the act.”

“And how much iron is this going to cost?”

Monroe shrugged then returned to his conversation. Ama sighed.

Save for an empty wooden stool, the stage sat empty for several minutes. Anticipation hung in the air like a thick fog. A lone figure emerged from the back of the stage. He carried a glass oil lamp. The light cast an aura around him, reflecting off his long purple robes and casting menacing shadows across his face. He placed the lamp down on the stool and took a full step back. He didn’t smile, and if I had to guess, he did not seem fond of being there.

“That’s him,” Lira said, squeezing my wounded hand.

I winced and moved her hand to my arm instead.

She made a pouting face and leaned into my arm. “What do you think he will do next?”

“I would bet a copper it will have something to do with moving the wind.”

“How so?” Lira asked.

“Assuming he is a true weaver, and not just some trickster using sleight of hand and invisible strings, he will have a calling.”

“A calling?”

“A Venticle education, huh?” I laughed, patting her gently on the arm.

She slapped my arm. “Sorry, Lord Ruk, but they didn’t offer a course on omens and fairy dust either.”

“Well,” I said, professorially, “allow me to educate you then. A weaver is said to possess a calling, an affinity if you will, to the elements that make up the world. They spend their whole lives cultivating this affinity. It’s what allows them to call upon that element, to do… uh…stuff. Considering he used wind before in the juggler’s act, it is only logical that—”

“You have no idea, do you?” Lira said. “You’re just making it up as you go?”

“No, I mean, I know what Ada told me, but you would have to ask him if it was true… though that may be a bit problematic.”

Lira grew quiet. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s fine, really. I was just making a joke.” I chuckled nervously. “I guess when you can joke about the dead, you’re no longer mourning them.”

She squeezed my arm again. “It’s good to see you laughing. I know how much he meant to you.”

I leaned towards her, kissed the top